


Can't Stop Talking About

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to drown his sorrows at a douchey bar. Cas shows up and throws down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stop Talking About

Don't take an angel to a bar.

I mean, if you can help it.

It’s not like there's something inherently wrong with bars, or booze, or anything like that. But angel mojo and that kind of vibe are like matches and gasoline. Between the two of them, somebody's gonna get hurt.

Case in point.

It was Tuesday and I was bored.

Sam was twitchy like he is every Tuesday, these days. I stuck close and kept one eye peeled, which just made him even more squirrelly. Made him break out the bitchface and start actively trying to piss me off. First, he took the best bed—the one without the bullet holes in the headboard. Then, he ate all of my fries when I went to the can, and after dinner, he velcroed the remote to his hand and made me watch some horrible documentary on Reagan and the Cold War blah blah blah blah. I swear, I was ready to tear down that fucking wall myself just to get him to shut up.

God.

So I did the only thing I knew to do: I threw shit at Sam’s head and moaned and generally made an ass of myself until he threatened to, quote unquote, "murder me in my fucking sleep" unless I left him the hell alone for five minutes already. And dude, he’s been eating his Wheaties or something, because he manhandled me, practically threw me out the door and slammed that fucker right in my face.

Bitch.

I started off down the street, headed for the main drag, for one of the bars we’d passed on the way into town. Wasn’t so bad. Felt kinda good to be walking around.

And as I walked, I thought. Which is always dangerous, with me.

See, the thing was, I had been kind of clingy with Sam for a couple of days. A little overbearing. I sorta understood why he was sick of me.

But I didn't want to be alone.

Because if I was alone, then Cas might show up. And if Cas showed up, then we might have to talk about the other night or whatever, about me laying one on him at two in the morning when I was not nearly drunk enough and Sam was asleep in the next bed.

I mean, come on. Terrible fucking idea, right?

But I was cold and Cas was right there and I can't help it if he's that goddamn pretty in the middle of the night, can I?

He'd been with us for the day and the hunt had taken us into the night and it only made sense to say: “Stay.”

Even though he doesn't need sleep. Even though I knew if he left he'd have one eye on us from his feathery, fluffy perch or whatever.

I said "Stay" and Sam rolled his eyes and Cas said: “Yes.”

He stretched out above the covers—after I reminded him to take off his freaking coat. And his shoes—and I turned off the light.

And everything was fine until I turned over at some point, just normal trying-to-get-to-sleep scrunching, and he was there. I mean, _there_ , his eyes right in my face, his mouth open a little and it looked soft and I wasn't thinking and I kissed him.

Just something wet and slow.

I may have said his name, then. Wound my hand in his hair and pulled him over me.

And at first he seemed, I don't know, confused or something, but when his chest met mine, he got with the program. I mean, he _got_ it.

He curled his hands into my shirt and bit his fingernails into my skin. Opened his mouth all the way and slid his tongue over mine, almost shy, like he didn't know what I'd do.

But of course, that was awesome and I let him and he made this noise, this sigh that shook his whole body, and it went right to my head and my hips and I definitely said his name then, a little louder than I should’ve, because Sam groaned: "Jesus, will you two just get a room?" and Cas vanished in this puff of humiliation and I hadn’t seen him since.

So I'd been sticking with Sam because I figured Cas'd be too embarrassed to show up when he was around and oh, god.

Let’s be clear:

I am such a freaking girl about stuff like this.

What I realized then, following my nose and the cheap neon, falling into the steady stream of pretty people on the sidewalk, was that maybe that was why I'd been on edge the past few days.

Because I really, really wanted to see Cas.

To talk to him.

To throw him down on the nearest horizontal surface and make him forget his goddamn name.

Right.

A drink. I clearly needed a drink. Or twelve.

The place was called the _Light Horse_ and it was full of imported bottles and blonde girls and preppy dudes in pastel polos. Not my usual kind of place, but I figured: yeah. I could make it work.

After the kiss of sweet sweet liquor, I wouldn't know the damn difference, anyway.

I ordered a double scotch, neat, and that baby was music to my mouth even before the glass hit my lips and then:

"Hello, Dean."

I swallowed real the fuck fast. Kicked back the rest before I turned.

And yeah, there he was, all rumpled trenchcoat and righteousness. To be fair, he fit in there a little better than me and my Guns N Roses t-shirt, but still.

His face was in neutral, curious and quiet, with none of the fuck-me-now flush that I'd gotten a glimpse of the other night. I kinda missed it.

"Hi!" I said, way too cheerful and I wasn't fooling anybody with that shit. "Um. What're you doing here?"

He gave me a frown, the one that says "You are an idiot, Dean, but I have been too well raised to say so to your face."

He said, "I am here to see you. Is that not apparent?" 

And even over the horrible pop mart music and the drunk-ass dude bros next to us at the bar, that gravity growl was un-fucking-mistakable. Got the attention of one of the bros, some douche in powder blue J. Crew who gave Cas a once-over that I really didn't like, but. You know me. I tried to laugh it off.

"Dude, of course you are," I said, slapping Cas on the back. (Which I don't recommend, by the way. Slapping an angel on the shoulder blades. It fucking smarts).

He stared at my arm like it was a jellyfish or something, then looked up at me and fuck. Oh fuck.

I was so screwed.

"Dean," he said, leaning in beside me, his voice low and urgent. "It is important that we speak. About what happened the other night."

"Ahahaha!" I brayed, like Cas had told some awesome Enochian kneeslapper, signaling desperately for another drink.

He braced his hip on the bar and dipped into my face, and suddenly the music was too loud and he was too close and I’d only had one drink but I felt totally wasted, right then.

“You kissed me,” Cas said, and yeah, I had, and yeah, I really wanted to again, but fuck if I was gonna tell Cas that.

I’m an idiot.

“What?!” I said, going for the mime. Cupping my hand to my ear. “What’s that, Cas? I can’t hear you. Music’s too loud.”

Until it wasn’t.

Goddamn angel mojo.

“Hey!” somebody shouted. “Who killed the tunes? ‘Hot’n’Cold’ is my song!”

“I said,” Cas rumbled in the breach, his eyes boring into my skin. “You kissed me, Dean.”

And in the silence, with that voice, it was easy to remember that Cas is a fucking angel of the Lord.

My face went ketchup but I swear, I couldn’t look away.

Even though the whole bar was looking at us. The whole goddamn bar, girls in their summer dresses, the frat boys, the hipsters who were slumming: all of them staring. At us.

“Cas,” I said, “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

And the blue in his face went diamond, all of a sudden. Hard and cold. He turned to face the dude behind him, the idiot in powder blue.

“You would do well to keep your hands to yourself,” Cas said, doing the angel slow burn. Which dude bro totally missed. All he saw was a nerdy guy in a raincoat.

His mistake.

“What?” the dude said, all fake innocent. “I’m sorry. I thought you liked that kind of thing. Guys like you.”

Now the place was a fucking tomb, everybody silent and gaping at Cas and I couldn’t keep the grin off my face, then. I probably should have done something, put a hand on Cas’ elbow and got him to take pity on that moron.

But I didn’t. I just watched the show like everybody else.

Cas took a step forward, measured and easy. Slow. “I doubt very much that you have met another ‘guy’ like me,” he said, the menace like metal on his lips.

And you could feel it, the power behind those words, but Powder Blue? Just could not get a freaking clue.

“Really?” he said, putting his sneer right in Cas’ face. “What kind of freak are you then, man?”

Cas tilted his head.

“I thought it was obvious,” he said. “I am not a man.”

And in a flash, before Blue’s one brain cell could kick in, Cas’ fingers were on his forehead and the dude was falling, clattering into his buddies’ arms in a dead slump, and then, oh shit. It was on.

There was this roar from the guys’ friends and a general shriek from the crowd and a sudden blast of Zeppelin from the jukebox, which was random, and then the beer bottles started flying.

I was laughing like a freaking hyena, which maybe wasn’t the healthiest response. But seeing Cas go ninja and the dude bros try and man up with “Trampled Under Foot” booming in my ears was kinda overwhelming.

Then one of the polos lunged for Cas and I got a fistful of trenchcoat and tried to haul his angel ass behind the bar. He turned his head and I got one good look at his “What the hell?” face before the _Light Horse_ vanished and I fell into a wall or something.

“Where are we?” I managed, trying to put the hysterical back in the cage.

Cas sighed. “We are in the back room of the establishment next door.” He looked at me like that was supposed to help. “They are closed on Tuesdays.”

I stared at him for a second.

And went right back to howling.

He did the patient puppy dog stare.

“Dean. I do not understand. What is it about this situation that you find so humorous?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I wheezed. “You don’t just—only you would start a bar fight over a—oh, god.” I bumped up against something soft and threw myself at it. Landed in some floofy, flowery chair. “Cas. You can’t just use your angel dust like that, man. I thought you guys were careful about stuff like that.”

He peered down at me in the dim light, looking kind of ashamed.

“Um,” he said. “We are. I mean, I am. Usually.”

There was this long pause cut through with the dead whine of police sirens and the barking of frat boys getting hauled out by their ears. And Zeppelin, still going strong. Moved on to “Dazed and Confused.”

Which again, I thought was hilarious.

Cas just looked at me, bemused. Waiting for me to come down.

“What changed your mind?” I said, finally.

He smiled, aimed those megawatts of angel right at me.

“You,” he said. “About a lot of things, Dean. Not the least of which is a fight against an overly aggressive human who is so insecure about his own sexual identity that he has to taunt others about theirs.”

I grinned. Stretched out my hands and found his. “You’re awesome, Cas,” I said.

“Um,” he said again. Wound his fingers in mine and let me tug him close. “The problem still stands, however.”

“Hmm?” I said, rolling up and pushing my face into his chest. You know. Because I could.

His breath hitched.

“You kissed me,” he said for the nine hundredth time.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, guiding our hands to his hips. “I was there.”

“You were—“ he started, but I tugged on his belt until he landed light and fast on my lap. Perched, my waist caught between his knees.

“Oh,” he breathed, his eyes wide. “So. Why did you apologize?”

“Well,” I said, tracing my fingers over his lips. Which he seemed to appreciate. “I wasn’t sure that you were ok with it, see? I didn’t want to push you.” I hung my thumb on his bottom lip and his eyes flickered.

“Your concern is laudable,” he said, his teeth brushing my thumb. “But I assure you, Dean. You could not push me even if you wanted to.”

“That so?” I said, yanking his shirttails up and out of those freaking horrible slacks.

“It is,” he sighed. Pitched forward into my touch. Into me.

We fell all the way back into the fricking floofy chair and there was this rush of scent, like potpourri on acid or something.

“Dude,” I said, working the words into his neck. “What kind of place is this? You bring me to a bordello, baby?”

He huffed. “It is a furniture establishment. It specializes in neo-French décor that is made in China and why is any of that important to you, Dean?”

I bit his ear and he made this gorgeous noise and arched over me, over the stupid chair, his hands scrabbling at my shirt, my head, my throat.

“Please,” he gasped. “Is this part of the sexual ritual? Discussing the relative accoutrements of the space?”

I nudged him away and sat up, just enough to get my shirt over my head and slap his hands onto my chest. On my scar. His.

“Not unless that turns you on,” I said, pulling him back in and honestly, I think just about anything I’d said would have made him hot at that point. But still. Wasn’t really ready for the full-on angel assault.

He said “Dean!,” this long sweet string of sound that I almost didn’t recognize as my name, it was so freaking beautiful coming out of his mouth. His mouth that he planted on mine, trapped me like a vise between his lips and fed me little slips of his tongue.

Teased me. The goddamn angel _teased_ me.

Heh.

Together, we got his button-down off and I think he smote his undershirt, just to get my hands on his skin.

And when I touched him, slid my fingers down his stomach and palmed his ribs, he sang. Curved his lips into my hair and sang for me, my angel.

We got back to kissing and he figured out what his hips did, what they wanted to do, and started rolling them down into my lap. Spread his legs and rubbed himself against me, grinning. Shameless and beautiful and happy.

I got my hands on his belt and slowed him to a sway. Got his zipper down and watched his eyes bloom as I touched him, feathery soft over his cock.

“Oh,” he panted, flicking up in that amazing arch again. “Oh, Dean.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, Cas. Castiel.”

I licked my fingers and got a better grip, tried to guide him into a slip slide through my fist. And that was like pouring gasoline on a grill because he lit up quick, his eyes fusing, red butterflies flying over his chest as he moved, that voice smoking up into a steady hum of “yes” and “please” and “Dean.” Always “Dean.”

He had one hand on my shoulder, my scar, but the other was just flying, spinning around his body as he fucked my fist and I knew he was close when that hand froze, opening and closing between us, clutching at the damn air.

“Come on,” I said, low and sweet. “Come on, Castiel. Come for me.”

His eyes shot open and he stared at me for a second, like he’d never seen me before.

Like I was some kind of revelation.

“Dean,” he groaned, one last time, and went nova over my throat and my chest. And I got to watch. Got to see an angel completely lose his shit over me.

No.

Got to see Cas lose it over me, for me, and when I realized that, I was done. Whatever patience I’d worked up wanting to please him was gone, right out the fucking door, seeing that. Feeling that.

My hips kicked up as he was still coming down and I would have felt bad if I had any feeling left in my goddamn head just then. But I didn’t. I wanted him so bad I felt like I would fall apart if he didn’t touch me already, and I grabbed his hands and pushed them into my lap, moaning “Please. _Please_.”

He got me open, his fingers sticky from mine, and slid onto his knees.

I didn’t look. I couldn’t.

I knew if I opened my eyes and saw him drawing me in, I’d lose it right there. Come all over his beautiful face and okay, that really did not help, thinking like that.

Really. Didn’t.

I felt his breath on my cock, his lips, and then he curled his tongue over the head. Gentle. I could feel the curiosity coming off of him in waves, that need to know, to understand what he was doing to me as he ran his fingers up and over, stroking and sucking a little at the same time, his lips like unbelievably soft and wet, and normally a little exploration would’ve been awesome, but by then it was too fucking much.

“God, Cas, please,” somebody that sounded like me said in this high, breathy whine.

He made a noise low in his throat and opened his mouth.

I grabbed the arms of that stupid cushiony chair and did my best not to fuck his face. Tried. He took one of my hips in his hand and held me down, iron will in his fingers and oh, yeah. Again: angel. There was an angel sucking my cock and it was Cas, _Cas_ , and shit, I came like a bat out of Hell.

So to speak.

He drank me down and then buried his face in my thigh, his lips hot over the denim, both of us gasping like goldfish tossed out on dry land.

“Um,” I said. Eventually. “That was—“

He curled back into my lap like he’d never left. Like he didn’t really want to. Ever.

“Yes,” he said, his mouth slinking over my jaw. His tongue quick over my ear. “It was. Now. Stop talking and kiss me again.”

So.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe, if you’re lucky enough to have an angel in your life, especially an awkward one with issues of personal space.

One who loves you, body soul and grace.

You should totally take him to a bar, or wherever it is he wants to go.

Just make sure you drag him back home with you, after.

He’s worth hanging on to. Trust me.

**

“Dean,” Cas said, after a while. “Does this count as ‘getting a room’?”

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for a friend, based on this prompt: "An argument over the jukebox leads to a barfight...then things really get out of hand."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bar Fights and Blow Jobs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/495224) by [nvr2mnybooks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nvr2mnybooks/pseuds/nvr2mnybooks)




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